The stadium no longer felt empty.
Not because it was filled with people—
but because Ares Locke no longer felt alone inside it.
Morning sunlight spilled across the grass in long, pale streaks, catching on the dew like shards of glass. The air was cool, sharp, and unforgiving—the kind of cold that crept into muscles and refused to leave.
Ares stood at the center circle, hands resting on his hips, chest rising and falling slowly.
Today marked Day Fifteen of his thirty-day countdown.
Half his time was gone.
Half his chances, burned.
And the weight of that truth pressed down on him harder than any training session ever had.
He rolled his shoulders once.
Then again.
His legs still ached from yesterday's drills—controlled dribbling under pressure, directional feints, balance recovery after forced contact. Rowan Vale had shown no mercy.
Nor had the system.
In fact, the system had been disturbingly quiet since last night.
Too quiet.
No chimes.
No prompts.
No reader notifications.
Just… silence.
Ares exhaled.
"Still testing me, huh?"
The words vanished into the open air.
He bent down and placed five cones in a staggered formation—tight angles, uneven spacing. The kind of setup designed to punish hesitation.
Rowan stood near the sideline, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Begin," he said.
Ares tapped the ball forward.
First cone—inside touch.
Second—outside cut.
Third—drag back.
Fourth—quick pivot.
Fifth—
His foot slipped.
The ball rolled half a meter too far.
Rowan's voice cut through instantly.
"Stop."
Ares froze.
Rowan walked onto the field slowly. Calm. Deliberate.
"You're thinking too much," Rowan said. "Your body knows the sequence. Your mind is interfering."
Ares swallowed. "I don't want to mess up."
"That's exactly why you are," Rowan replied.
He crouched slightly, meeting Ares's eye level.
"Fear kills flow. Flow wins games."
Ares clenched his jaw.
"I can't afford mistakes."
Rowan's gaze hardened.
"Then you'll never make it."
The words landed like a slap.
Ares stared at the grass.
Rowan straightened. "Trials don't reward perfection. They reward presence. Players who disappear under pressure don't matter how skilled they are."
He stepped back.
"Again."
Ares nodded.
This time, he didn't rush.
He didn't force speed.
He let the ball breathe.
Tap.
Slide.
Turn.
Recover.
The ball stayed glued to his foot like it belonged there.
At the fifth cone, he pivoted cleanly.
Rowan didn't stop him.
Ares continued.
Another lap.
Then another.
Sweat formed along his spine. His breathing deepened. His calves screamed—but something else surfaced beneath the pain.
Rhythm.
DING.
The sound struck his mind softly—almost cautiously.
⸻
Reader Emotion Detected: Focused Anticipation
Synchronization Rate: +6%
⸻
Ares's heart skipped.
Not excitement.
Not shock.
Something steadier.
They were watching.
And waiting.
Rowan gestured toward the far end of the field.
"Finish with shots. Controlled power. Corners only."
Ares nodded.
First shot—wide.
Second—saved by an imaginary keeper.
Third—crossbar.
Frustration surged.
His shoulders tensed.
His breathing sharpened.
And the system remained silent.
No boost.
No spark.
Nothing.
Ares laughed under his breath.
"So that's how it is."
He placed the ball again.
But this time, he didn't think about technique.
He thought about weight.
The weight of being ignored.
The weight of every rejection letter.
The weight of being told not enough.
He inhaled slowly.
And struck.
The ball curved—not violently, not dramatically—but decisively.
Top right.
Net ripple.
Rowan nodded once.
"Better."
Training ended near noon.
Ares collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving, limbs trembling.
Rowan stood above him.
"You're improving," he said. "Slowly. But honestly."
Ares smiled faintly. "That's… good to hear."
Rowan hesitated.
Then said, "But improvement alone won't save you."
Ares looked up.
"The Trials won't test drills," Rowan continued. "They'll test resilience. Pressure. Presence under eyes."
He paused.
"Can you perform when everyone expects you to fail?"
Ares didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the sky.
Then said quietly, "I've been doing that my whole life."
Rowan studied him for a long moment.
Then turned away.
"Rest today. Tomorrow—we simulate pressure."
That night, Ares lay on his narrow bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
His body hurt.
His mind hurt more.
Thirty days felt impossibly short now.
What if this wasn't enough?
What if the system abandoned him?
What if the readers lost interest completely?
The thought tightened his chest.
DING.
The sound was louder this time.
Clearer.
⸻
System Update
Reader Engagement Stabilized
A threshold has been reached.
⸻
Ares sat up.
"What threshold?"
The panel flickered.
⸻
Passive Condition Met: Sustained Will Under Silence
Unlocking Hidden Evaluation…
⸻
Ares's breath caught.
Hidden… evaluation?
⸻
Evaluation Result: PASS
Reason:
Host continued self-driven growth despite minimal external reinforcement.
This behavior aligns with core system compatibility.
⸻
Warmth spread through his chest.
Not explosive.
Not overwhelming.
Just… solid.
⸻
New Passive Unlocked
〈Will Anchor〉
Effect:
When external support (reader engagement, morale boosts, system prompts) is absent, host performance will not degrade below personal baseline.
Description:
Your will no longer depends on applause.
⸻
Ares's vision blurred.
"…So even if no one's watching…"
⸻
Correct.
Your will is now self-sustaining.
⸻
He exhaled shakily.
This wasn't a flashy skill.
No dramatic power-up.
But it was something deeper.
Something permanent.
Something his.
The next morning, Rowan's words echoed again.
Can you perform when everyone expects you to fail?
Ares tied his boots.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Because I always have."
He stepped back onto the field.
Not chasing miracles.
Not begging belief.
Just moving forward.
One step.
One strike.
One breath at a time.
And somewhere beyond time, beyond the page—
Readers leaned in.
Not because he was unstoppable.
But because he refused to stop.